“Absolutely, Señor. Under the bridge the torrent has worn a deep channel; at the very bottom the path runs eastward, and is concealed by a stone wall made to look like the natural cliff of the stream. You go up that path which leads to the foot of the waterfall, then along a passage which leads upward to the thickest part of the forest. Leaving this passage, you ascend steps, which lead to a narrow gorge, cut in the top of the mountain—deep, very deep, Señor, is the pass; no one can see the city therefrom. In the centre of the pass is a circular space, whence ten passages, cut from the solid rock, lead everywhere. Go by eight of these passages, and you fall over cliffs, for the path ends abruptly. They are death-traps. Of the other two passages, one leads to the sacred city, the other to the forests beyond the mountains. In this circular place do the priests blindfold the worshippers. Those who go out can reach that place, those who come in the same; but, unless guided, they would go astray into the death-traps. Therefore are they blindfolded by the priests, and led forward in safety.”
“What a horrible idea,” said Duval, shuddering; “but how am I to know the right passage?”
“There is a carving of the opal, throwing rays, cut at the entrance of the passage. That is the right one. Go through that, and you come on to a broad platform on the other side of the mountain. Steps lead down from thence to the valley into a broad way built of old by the Toltecs. This road ends suddenly in a wilderness of trees. Then you guide yourself to the coast by red marks on the trunks of trees—the opal, painted crimson, is the sign. Follow those, and you come to the sea-shore.”
“How far is it from here to the sea-shore?”
“Fifty miles, Señor.”
“Fifty miles!” groaned Jack, in dismay. “However can Dolores manage to do that? and then the perils from incoming Indians!”
“Listen, Señor. Oftentimes the priests send forth penitents who have on them a vow of silence. I will procure dresses for my lord and Doña Dolores. You shall be disguised as Indians under the vow of silence. Should you meet anyone, make a sign thus, and they will permit you to pass without question. As to the length of the way, I will give you provisions, and you must travel to the coast as best you can. It will take many days, but what of that? You will be free.”
“Suppose we are pursued?”
“No, Señor; I have a plan. Beyond the great wall of the west is the narrow path of the cañon. When you and Doña Dolores depart, I will take your clothes through the gate, which is always open, and strew some of them on the narrow path. I will let fall some blood of an animal down the side of the cliff. Below rushes the torrent, white and fearful. When the priests find out you are gone they will not search the secret way, not thinking that it is known to anyone but themselves. No, Don Juan, they will go beyond the wall, to the narrow path, and there they will find your clothes, and those of Doña Dolores. They will then think that you have fallen into the torrent, and so all search will cease.”
“That’s a capital idea, Cocom! Your ingenuity is wonderful. But when myself and Doña Dolores come to the coast, what shall we do?”
“Wait there, Señor, in a cave I will describe to you, until I come. I will have to remain behind so as to avert suspicion. Yes; I will tear my hair when you have gone, and say that you have fled by the way of the cañon; the priests will search, and think you have fallen into the torrent. The next day, they will thrust me from the sacred city for having not guarded you well. I will then come down to the coast, to the cave. Once there, Señor, and we shall soon contrive some plan to get back to Tlatonac.”
“But the priests might kill you, Cocom!”
“Have no fear of that, Señor; I am old, my sacrifice would not be acceptable to the gods. And again, Señor, I have secrets of herbs known only to myself, which the priests fain would learn. Should they threaten my life, I will tell them my secrets and go free.”
“You can never return to Totatzine?”
“What matter,” replied Cocom, indifferently. “I am very old. Soon I will die. When I get again to Tlatonac I will worship the Virgin, and die in my corner. Who will care? The old have no friends!”
“You will have a friend in me, Cocom,” said Jack, shaking the hand of the old Indian. “I promise you that neither myself nor Doña Dolores will forget this service. By the way, when do we make this attempt?”
“To-morrow night, Señor.”
“Bueno! But why to-morrow night?”
“At dawn, Señor, to-morrow, there will be a sacrifice to the god, and a man will die. The priests will ask you be present so as to sanctify the ceremony.”
“A kind of rehearsal, I suppose,” said Jack, grimly. “Go on, Cocom.”
“Afterwards there will be a great festival. All day it will continue, till sunset. It may be,” continued Cocom, artfully, “that the priests and the people will drink much; if so, it will be the better for us. In any case, Don Juan, all will be weary, and sleep well at sunset. Then I will disguise you and Doña Dolores as Indians, and lead you to the secret way. By dawn you will be far down beyond the mountains. Travel all night, Señor, so as to reach the central forests before dawn. For it may be that the priests will look from the platform down the road of the Toltecs, and there see you far off. But this, I think, will not be. The whole city will sleep heavily, exhausted by the festival, and when they waken, you, Señor, will have escaped.”
“God grant this scheme may succeed!” said Duval, rising to his feet. “I can never thank you sufficiently for this, Cocom.”
“Bueno! You are the friend of Don Miguel, who saved my life. Be happy, Señor; I will not fail to rescue you from the stone of Huitzilopochtli. And now, Señor Juan, we must go down, else will the priests be suspicious of these long talks between us.”
“There is only one thing I would like to do before I leave Totatzine,” remarked Duval, as they went down to his room.
“And that, Señor?”
“Is to break the neck of Ixtlilxochitli by throwing him down those steps.”
Cocom laughed softly. It was a rare thing for this melancholy Indian to do, but he did not love Ixtlilxochitli, and the idea amused him greatly.
“Come,” said Duval, tapping his friend on the back, “let us go and take the eleven. We must drink success to our scheme in a flask of aguardiente.”
Chapter VIII.
An Indian Festival
The sacred drums of serpents’ skins
Send forth their muffled roar afar;
Before the shrine the opal spins,
A changing star!
That flashes rays of rainbow light
From out its breast of cloudy white,
Rebuking sins
Which mar!
Oh, see the maidens forward bound,
To swing and sway in dances wild,
Loose locks with fragrant chaplets crowned,
Their glances mild!
Exchanged for looks, whose frantic fires
The sacred god himself inspires,
Who thrice hath frowned,
And smiled.
The victim! see the victim pure!
Approaches to the stone to die;
But for a space his pangs endure,
And then on high
His